


i'll try to harmonise,

by Poe



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (blend of game Geralt and show Geralt really), (he talks a bit more in the game so), Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Established Relationship, Geralt Uses His Words, Geralt is autistic which is probably more apparent, Geralt is trans it's not relevant or mentioned it's just a thing that happens to be true, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Healthy Relationship Dynamics (I think idk), Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier's parents are mentioned and as usual they are Bad, M/M, Mild Angst with a happy ending, Musician Jaskier, Writer's Block
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25226950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poe/pseuds/Poe
Summary: “Fuck,” Jaskier mutters, and hits the strings of his guitar at random, making an awful twang that causes Geralt to raise his head and look over at the other man.“Problem?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier shrugs.“Can’t seem to find it today,” Jaskier says despondently. “I fear I have lost my spark.”*Or: Jaskier has writer's block, Geralt still loves him. That's it, that's the fic.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 162





	i'll try to harmonise,

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ACometAppears](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACometAppears/gifts).



“Fuck,” Jaskier mutters, and hits the strings of his guitar at random, making an awful twang that causes Geralt to raise his head and look over at the other man.

“Problem?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier shrugs.

“Can’t seem to find it today,” Jaskier says despondently. “I fear I have lost my spark.”

He puts down the guitar, resting it against the side of the chair. Geralt places a bookmark in his book and walks over to Jaskier, kneeling in front of him so he can prop his elbows on Jaskier’s knees and rest his head on them. Six months ago, he wouldn’t have dreamed of doing this, careless – no, that’s not the right word, carefree, perhaps, intimacy in action and deed. But now, now it’s no hardship, especially when his partner is distressed.

Jaskier runs a hand through Geralt’s hair, careful to avoid the braids that Jaskier himself had weaved in earlier that morning. Another thing Geralt never thought he’d allow, and yet –

And yet, and yet, and yet.

The things he would do for Jaskier seem like an endless list now, surely the list of things he _wouldn’t_ do has become vanishingly short. So he closes his eyes to the touch of Jaskier’s fingers against his scalp for a moment, and tries to find the words.

When he looks back up at Jaskier, he meets blue eyes that make him begin to understand all the poetry he’s ever read and discarded, every purple prose description of sunshine days and precious gems and clear oceans.

Jaskier looks like he’s going to say something, then pauses.

Geralt tilts his head, urging him onward.

“It scares me, sometimes, losing this,” Jaskier says. He doesn’t clarify, whether he means his ability to sing and write, or maybe, he could mean Geralt, the life they’ve begun to forge together. Maybe both. Maybe the two aren’t as separate as they once were.

“Nobody expects anything of you,” Geralt says carefully, choosing each word and weighing it on his tongue before giving it life, “nothing more than you’re willing to give.”

Jaskier smiles a little sadly.

“That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? But even if there weren’t people out there, and gods, Geralt, you know I’m not humble, I know people like my work. They want more of it. Possibly more than I have in me. What if I’m not enough? What if they grow to hate me? Or forget me? What am I, then? The disappointment my parents promised me I’d be? Oh, gods, I have a headache.”

Geralt raises a hand to push Jaskier’s hair back from his forehead, and Jaskier leans into it, allowing Geralt to find the sore spot at the edge of his temple and massage the skin there.

There’s a fragile silence that demands to be broken, but the right words are difficult to reach, and Geralt tries different combinations in his head before speaking. It’s something he’s learnt since being with Jaskier, that he can take the time to arrange things a little more neatly, even though Jaskier always found his bluntness, in Jaskier’s own words, _adorable_.

“You’re enough,” Geralt says, still running his thumb up and down the soft skin beside Jaskier’s ear. “If you never sang another word, you’d still be enough. You’ve given so much of yourself, and if people don’t realise the gift you’ve given them, that’s not your problem. As for your parents – you know I have no kind words for them.”

“Geralt – ” Jaskier begins, but Geralt cuts him off, a rarity, and it takes Jaskier by such surprise that his words stop before they can spill out.

“I fucking love you Jask, I loved you busking on street corners and I love you playing concerts. But – I don’t love you _because_ of those things. They’re a part of you. But they’re not all of you. If other people can’t see that, they are missing so fucking much. It’s just a bad day, Jask. It may not feel like it, but it’ll pass.”

It’s a lot of words. And some of them are clumsy. But they’re all honest. And Jaskier has told him that that is what counts.

“Ever the wordsmith, eh?” Jaskier says, his smile less brittle now, a little more solid, his features lighter. “Maybe you should write my songs for me. Now, wouldn’t that be something?”

Geralt smiles, and traces his thumb down Jaskier’s cheekbone to the bristle of stubble on his cheeks, to the corner of his mouth, before resting it at the tip of Jaskier’s chin, feeling like if he had to, he would hold up the whole world for Jaskier, and all the heavens too. Jaskier isn’t carved out of marble, nothing so boring or simple as that, no – he’s made of opal or goldstone or quartz. Something that is amplified by the sun’s rays, something that is deeper than surface, something that shines.

“That would be something,” Geralt agrees. “But I think I will leave it to you. But not today, not right now. They can all stand to wait, can’t they? If they love you that much?”

Jaskier looks at him the way nobody has ever looked at him, the way only Jaskier can. The way that fills his heart and makes his brain flood with this impossible glow of love. He can’t put it into words, he doubts anybody could, it’s made of a thousand different things, only a few of them named or numbered.

“As though I haven’t been writing for just one person for a while now,” Jaskier says, and Geralt _knows_ , gods, how he knows, that Jaskier’s songs are love notes tucked under doors and into pockets, and all of them addressed to him.

“Perhaps that person is willing to wait a little longer too,” Geralt smiles, and sees it reflected back in the way Jaskier’s smile grows larger still. “Perhaps that person wants to order Chinese and watch your ridiculous Netflix shows. And perhaps – that person is getting cramp in his leg.”

Jaskier laughs then, really laughs, and it makes Geralt want to burst in a way he can’t describe. Like every inch of him has been filled by it until there’s no room for anything else.

“Stand up, idiot,” Jaskier says, and Geralt does, shaking out his leg as he does so. He holds out a hand for Jaskier to pull himself up, and Jaskier takes it, and maybe Geralt uses a little more force than necessary, until Jaskier is safe against his chest.

Jaskier is soft, in sweats and a hoodie, and warm, and Jaskier is winding arms around Geralt’s waist and resting his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck, small breaths tickling the skin there and causing tiny hairs to raise.

“Muse, confidant, _lover_ ,” Jaskier mutters, and holds Geralt tightly. And Geralt can’t argue, he is all of those things, sometimes all at once, sometimes separately. It is a privilege.

Geralt could parry back, _artist, poet, storyteller, keeper of words and music, safe, protector, love, love, love._ It would never be enough, Jaskier defies any box Geralt could hope to put him in, and Geralt loves him all the more for it.

Jaskier raises his chin and kisses Geralt, once, twice, a third time, a little longer each time, kisses that exist for the sake of existing, not leading to anything further, just kisses that prove that they are both there, both deserving of this.

“You are all the good things inside me,” Jaskier says, “everything is tangled up in you. Strings of destiny. You make me sing.”

Geralt shakes his head.

“No,” he says, firmly but softly, “you do it all yourself. And anything you draw from me, I draw equally from you.”

“A partnership of equals,” Jaskier says, and Geralt thinks, _yes, yes, exactly_.

“What luck,” Jaskier continues, “what chance. I found someone who knew all the words to my songs before I did.”

“I don’t understand,” Geralt says, though, he might, perhaps. And maybe if he were able to create in the way that Jaskier does, he would feel the same way. But doesn’t he though, every time Jaskier reads him when he hasn’t said a word? _In sync_ , Geralt thinks, but it is not a beautiful enough phrase to describe what Jaskier is and does.

“I will spend the rest of my life explaining it then, one song at a time, as long as you’ll let me,” Jaskier promises.

A thousand years wouldn’t allow Geralt to get his fill. A million? Not even close.

“I’ll always let you,” Geralt says, and presses his forehead against Jaskier’s, closing his eyes and breathing in the same air as him. “I may be a little slow.”

“Then I best get started!” Jaskier says, and steps away, grabbing his guitar with one hand. Geralt can’t help but let out a _hmph_ of amusement. _There’s_ his man. 

“I thought we were having Chinese?” Geralt questions, just to be a little shit.

“Chinese can wait, my love, for there are songs to compose and I fear my head will explode if I don’t get them out of me!”

Geralt settles back down in his seat opposite, picking up his book and opening it. He doesn’t keep his eyes on the page though, not one bit. His eyes are on Jaskier, who is already mumbling to himself and trying out new chords and throwing words together. The bookmark stays in place, and Geralt watches. He would say he was in awe, but awe is such a small word.

Three letters aren’t enough.

Jaskier would understand.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I've had such a positive response to my Witcher fics and I'm just in awe, in general. You guys are the best, and I love this fandom. <3
> 
> I do want to write one of those 30k long, lower case (bracketed poetry title) fics for Geraskier soon, so expect that. Possibly poke me on tumblr (witcherling.tumblr.com) with ideas or headcanons or something to get me to actually do it. If you so fancy. Prompts are also open, so, go for it. Also if you search my geraskier tag, there's some fun stuff in there. It's all good!
> 
> All comments are appreciated, even if they're just keysmashes or an inexplicable combination of emojis. I love them all. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading, and take care! <3


End file.
